


Bridge Over Troubled Water

by TrevorPhilipsIndustries



Category: Grand Theft Auto V
Genre: Depression, F/M, Fluff, Ridiculous amount of fluff, Sadness, Told from Trevor's perspective
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-09
Updated: 2018-05-27
Packaged: 2019-04-20 11:01:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 16,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14259525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TrevorPhilipsIndustries/pseuds/TrevorPhilipsIndustries
Summary: She was smart, sarcastic, and as cynical as me. Stubborn as a mule; she knew what she wanted and she knew when she was right. But depression is a funny thing. It would hit her all at once, like a freight train; sudden and with extreme force.*Told from Trevor's perspective*





	1. A Short Intro

**Author's Note:**

> Hi friends! So if you've read some of my other stuff, I am a rather large fan of Trevor Philips. This story has been sort of a labor of love for me; sort of an experiment of sorts. There's lots of fluff, so if that's something you like, then hopefully you'll like this! I've found it pretty interesting writing from Trevor's perspective, and I know it's not entirely canon, but he gives me inspiration. :) I hope y'all like it!

She was smart, sarcastic, and as cynical as me. Stubborn as a mule; she knew what she wanted and she knew when she was right. But depression is a funny thing. It would hit her all at once, like a freight train; sudden and with extreme force. She would live with this sort of sadness like a devil on her back. It hung onto her with all of its strength. But every once and a while, she would wake up and find that the clouds had disappeared. There was a bounce in her step and she smiled as she drank her coffee in the morning.

Those were my favorite days. She would kiss me and her enthusiasm would seep out of her and warm me like the sun. See, life was never nice to me before her. I was born into a shit situation and it followed me around forever. I'm not a good person. I've done bad things. I've killed, robbed; done things that I don't like to think about anymore. I scare myself sometimes. But I never scared her.

Maybe it was because she felt like she had nothing to lose. She had no will to live. There is a stark contrast between living and surviving. She was simply surviving; just trying to get to the end of each day. Maybe part of her wished I would kill her someday. I couldn't hurt her. I saw myself in her. Not the crazy parts that made me hurt other people or act impulsively. No, I could see my own pain in her eyes. She had no family, no friends. She lived in solitude. Some days she liked it. Other days it weighed heavy on her heart.

Living in the city isn't the best for a person like her. It makes you feel more alone; small and insignificant. I guess I was insignificant too before I met her. I didn't realize what I needed until it was in front of me. I had never found someone who could so easily see through my flaws and recognize the real me. I don't think I even knew the real me. She helped me find that.

I hid my pain and my insecurities behind a rough exterior and an explosive temper. But her; she took a different approach. She hid herself away from everyone. She didn't like to bother people, so she would keep to herself. She let the pain consume her, and she lived with it like a roommate who leeched off of her and stole from her. She would live like this until one day, she would wake up and it would just spill out of her like a river.

She would have wasted away in her little apartment if she'd had her way. I didn't let it happen. I was enamored by her; I couldn't get enough. She pushed me away and I kept coming back like a stray dog. She understood me; I couldn't give that up. "I'm broken. Why do you stay?" She would ask me. "Because," I'd tell her, "Sometimes broken things need more love."

She woke up one morning and pushed me out of bed. She told me to leave; yelled at me to get out of her apartment. I was stronger than her. She couldn't force me out. She sat on the bathroom floor and sobbed and told me how much she hated me. I hated me too. But I couldn't give up on her. I slept on the couch for days, and she ignored my very existence. She barely left her bedroom. I would ask to sleep next to her every night. No funny business; I just wanted to be close to her. She would swear at me and push me out of the bedroom. 

Until one night she didn't. She cried as I held her. Her pain had taken over, and she needed somebody; anybody. I wasn't special. I was available and she took the emotional support where she could get it. But somewhere along the way, she decided I was special. I still don't feel like I am, but the way she looks at me gives me hope that maybe someday, I might.


	2. Stay With Me

I liked visiting her at work. She was happy to see me there. Sometimes at home she would sneer at me and push me away; I didn't know how to deal with her those days. I wanted to tell her how much I cared. She wouldn't listen; just brush me off. But when she was at work, things were different. I guess bartending isn't such a glamorous thing; surrounded by drunks and coming home smelling of booze. I think she welcomed my presence there. I was there to see her, not to get drunk, though sometimes that happened anyways.

"Charlotte," I called out to her from across the bar. I had spent enough time watching her that I could tell a lot about her mood just by her body language. She was having a bad night. She turned to look at me, and her face lit up; only momentarily. She passed a whiskey to someone across the bar and made her way over to me. "You look like you're unhappy," I told her.

She huffed in agreement. Her eyes looked sad. "I just want to go home." I took her hand in mine. She actually didn't pull away this time. Someone called her over for another drink. I watched her the rest of the night. I only drank one beer, but I tipped her as if I had drank myself under the table. I knew she struggled to pay her bills, but she didn't like handouts. Her shoulders dropped as the night went on. She dragged her feet and the light in her eyes had gone out. She looked to me occasionally for reassurance. I smiled at her, and she smiled back. I knew it was forced, but maybe, I thought, one time that night, it would be genuine.

I watched her as she closed up the bar. I stared at my hands clasped together on the counter and listened to the glasses clinking in the back room as the water ran. She sighed as she stacked the glasses back up under the bar. "Will you turn off the signs?" She asked me. I nodded at her. I looked through the front windows as I flipped off the neon signs. It had rained all night, and the streetlights reflected off of the wet pavement. The streets were nearly empty, and it felt lonely. Well, not completely. She was all I needed for company.

"Well, come on," she pulled me out of my trance-like state. I turned my attention away from the street and followed her out the back door, pausing as she set the alarm. I offered to drive. She shook her head no. I climbed into the passenger seat and sat quietly beside her as she drove home. She was the one who finally broke the silence. "I spilled beer all over myself tonight."

"Ah," I answered, "I was wondering why you smelled like a raging alcoholic."

"At least I don't look like one," she shot back, giving me a side eye. She sounded mean, but I could see the smile she tried to hide. I turned to look out the window. I should have been offended. I was just happy she was talking to me that night. Some nights she came home and ignored my very existence. I followed her up to her apartment and watched her make herself a sandwich. 

"You want one?" She asked. I nodded. "Good, knock yourself out." She pointed at the lunch meat still sitting out on the kitchen counter. I piled turkey, American cheese, lettuce and tomatoes onto a kaiser roll. She was already sitting on the couch, watching Netflix. A crime documentary.

"Why do you watch this stuff?" I asked her.

"Because," she said in between bites of her sandwich, "I like the reminder to sleep with one eye open if there's ever a criminal bunking on my couch." Her sarcasm was one of my favorite parts of her. Most people wouldn't dare talk back to me. She was completely unbothered. I stood next to her in the bathroom as we both brushed our teeth. I watched her wash off her makeup and get into her pajamas. She went through the motions, like her mind was elsewhere. It usually was.

"Can I sleep in your room?" I asked. She shook her head. "Why not?"

"Because I don't like you," she said plainly. I knew she didn't mean it. I followed her around as she locked the front door and cleaned up the kitchen.

"You used to let me," I pointed out. It was true. When we first met, she would let me sleep next to her; welcome me, even. She liked the body heat that I threw off. She turned up the air conditioning in her apartment. She liked blankets and fleece pajamas. She would sleep close to me, trying to absorb my warmth. But that was before the depression got the best of her. She couldn't afford her health insurance anymore. She was off of her medication. I offered to pay it; she refused. She said she didn't like feeling like a charity case.

"Please let me sleep next to you," I asked again. She whirled around to glare at me.

"I already said no," she hissed. My shoulders sank and I scowled at her. The rejection felt bad, but not bad enough to leave. I was persistent.

"Why do you push me away?" I asked her. I tried to stay calm, but that never has been my strong point. My voice had risen slightly, and I tried to reel it back in. She looked at me incredulously. She was angry.

"Because I don't fucking like you!" She planted her palms against my chest and pushed me out of the bedroom. She slammed the door in my face, and I could hear her throw herself down onto the bed. I sat on the floor outside of her bedroom and listened to her cry. I had a five minute rule; give her five minutes by herself and then try to talk to her again. I looked at the clock on the wall in the hallway and counted. One. Two. Three. Four. Five.

"Charlotte, can I come in?" I said softly. I rapped my knuckles against the door and waited for her response.

"Do whatever you want," she called back to me, her voice muffled, presumably by the sheets she had pulled over her head. I cracked the door open. She was curled up under the blankets, lying on her side. She dried her eyes on her shirt sleeve and sniffled. She didn't look at me when I sat down on the edge of the bed.

"What can I do to help?" I asked her. She rolled her eyes and shut them as another tear leaked out. She pulled the sheets up to her chin and let out a shaky breath.

"I don't know." She sounded far away. I could tell she had run out of words to say. I knew how she felt. It was hard to put into words. At a certain point, you feel too separated from everyone else to even explain yourself anymore. "I'm tired of feeling this way," she cried.

"I know," I sighed. I pinched the bridge of my nose between my thumb and forefinger. I turned to look at her; she still wouldn't make eye contact with me. She stared at the wall ahead of her. "If you would just let me pay for your insurance-"

"No," she cut me off, "I told you a thousand fucking times. I don't want you to pay for it." I opened my mouth to speak again, and she shot me a warning glare. "I'm not your charity case." She huffed, and turned away from me, wrapping herself up in the blankets like a burrito. "Goodnight," she said quietly. That was my cue to leave. I slunk out of the room before she spoke again. I had my hand on the doorknob.

"Wait," she said, "Stay."


	3. In The Beginning

It was 3 am when I saw her inside, turning off the neon lights in the windows. She was always behind the counter at this particular bar in Los Santos. I hate that goddamn city, but somehow, it always seemed to drag me back in for one reason or another. I had been watching her for a while. She closed up at the bar every Wednesday through Saturday, and that made the place a perfect target. One small woman closing on her own wouldn't hesitate for a second to hand me the money if I pulled a gun. Hell, maybe I wouldn't even have to. I pulled at the door handle, surprised to find it still unlocked, and took a quiet step inside. The lights were turned down, and I could hear her in the back room; the sound of glasses clinking and the water running drowned out my footsteps as I eased my way up to the bar. I stood silently until she reappeared, drying her hands on her jeans. She stopped dead in her tracks when she noticed me leaning against the bar.

"Oh, I'm sorry. We just closed." She spoke softly, a note of caution in her voice.

"I'm aware of that." I tapped my fingers against the counter top, trying to formulate my next words. I had done this so many times; I didn't even get an adrenaline rush from it anymore. "Why don't you open up that register for me, princess?" She looked at me with wide eyes, immediately reaching for what I assumed to be her phone in her back pocket. "Nu-uh," I leant forward, pointing my finger at her and waving it around in her direction. "Pull out your phone and I'll pull my gun. I don't want to, darlin', but try anything, and I'll do it."

She furrowed her brow at me and folded her arms across her chest. I could tell she was about to test me. "I'll bet you don't even have it loaded."

"What?" I was dumbfounded. I had done this probably a hundred times, and never once had anyone questioned me like she just had.

"Yeah," she nodded confidently, "You come in here on a Thursday night when I'm the only one closing and you expect me to believe that you have a loaded gun on you? You don't think I'm a threat; I'm 5'3" and you could probably pick me up with one arm. What would you possibly need a loaded gun for?"

Who did this girl think she was? I was blown away, and I couldn't tell whether I loved her or wanted to kill her. I shook my head, trying to think clearly. She had caught me off guard. I pointed at the register and gestured for her to come closer. "Doesn't matter. Let's go, princess; I ain't got all night." 

"Neither do I, and I'd like to go home, so if you could step outside so I can lock up, I'd appreciate it." She looked at me with a frustrated expression on her face, and gestured towards the front door. "You wanna rob me on the way out to my car? Go for it." 

"Hey, hey, you don't call the shots, here," I growled. "I do." 

"Look," she huffed, placing her hands on her hips. She looked almost as if she was bored. "I already did the deposit; there's no money in the drawer. All I've got are my tips, and I've got bills to pay. If you'd like to try this again outside, be my guest." 

I had met my match. Everyone was scared of Trevor Philips. But this girl; she wasn't. She didn't even seem to be phased by my presence. She shooed me out the door with her hands before I even had the time to gather my thoughts. I debated just leaving and going home, but I had questions. Had I lost my touch? Who was this girl and what had she seen in her life that made her so impenetrable to my threats? I shoved my hands in my pockets and waited by the back door. Not five minutes later, the door swung open and I jumped back to avoid it. She headed towards her car, clearly not expecting for me to have waited for her.

"Hey!" I called after her. She turned to face me, hiking her purse strap up higher on her shoulder. She had taken the elastic out of her hair, and it fell around her shoulders in soft brown waves. "What's the matter with you?" 

She raised her eyebrows at me and scoffed. "What do you mean, 'what's the matter with me?' I'm not the one with an unloaded gun tucked into my waistband." She was right; it wasn't even loaded. I had just come from a fight and I hadn't bothered to reload my gun. I had figured this would have been an easy in and out job.

"You're not scared of me," I questioned her, though it came out as more of a statement.

"It's not that I'm not scared of you," she began, pulling her shirt down slightly over her hips. "It's that I really don't see the point in any of this. I live in a shitty little apartment and I'm struggling to pay my bills. I've got no friends, no family, and my cat died. All I've got right now is the cash in my pockets, so if you wanna take it, go ahead." She looked at me expectantly, trying to maintain a tough facade, but I could see the hint of sadness that had crept across her face. Why did I care? Why did I give a shit that this girl's cat died or that she apparently couldn't pay her rent?

"What's your name?" I questioned her, wondering why I had even asked.

"Charlotte." Charlotte; the girl who was apparently not shaken by any situation. "You gonna tell me yours, or what?"

"Oh, uh- Trevor. My name's Trevor."

She stepped closer to me, staring at my arm as if there was something on it. "Well, Trevor, I hate to tell you, but you've got blood all over you. Looks like you got hurt in your last gun fight of the night." She said it jokingly, not knowing about my activities earlier on. She had hit the nail right on the head. I hadn't even noticed the throbbing pain in my upper arm until she pointed it out. I twisted my arm around to look at the wound. I had apparently been grazed by a bullet on my way out and hadn't even noticed due to the adrenaline. I ran my fingers over it and hissed when I felt the pain shooting through my arm. It would be a long drive back to Sandy Shores; that is if I could remember where I left my truck. 

"Look, do you need somewhere to clean up? My apartment is five minutes down the road." She pointed in the direction of her place, and jingled her keys around in front of her. "You've got ten seconds to decide."

"I just tried to rob you, and you're offering to let me into your home?" I muttered. This girl continually shocked me. She looked at me with big, blue eyes; pale and icy looking in the moonlight. She had a permanent expression that looked as though she had just gotten away with something. The corners of her mouth turned up into a slight smirk, and I could tell she was growing impatient.

"Yes or no, Butch Cassidy?"

"Who?" I asked. She looked at me with an amused expression, scrunching up her nose as she laughed.

"Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid? Famous robbers? Come on; you've really got to brush up on your own culture." I smiled at her. Any anger I had felt before had faded away. She was sassy; full of life and almost as sarcastic as me. I wanted to get to know her more. I nodded at her and wordlessly followed her over to her car.

I turned towards her as she pulled out of the parking lot and onto the main drag. "What's wrong with you?"

"Excuse me?" She snorted.

"I mean, do you always let complete strangers into your home? Even when they threaten to pull a gun on you? What are you, suicidal?"

"Yes," she blurted out, shifting uncomfortably under my gaze. "I guess I just don't care what happens to me." I watched her in silence as she pulled up to a small apartment building. I followed her up the stairs and stood behind her as she unlocked the door.

"Sit down," she demanded, pointing at a sofa against the right wall as she flipped on the light. I watched her as she pulled a first aid kit down from the top of the fridge. Her shirt pulled up slightly to reveal the soft curve of her hip, and my eyes snapped back up to meet her eyes when she turned around. "Saw that." She caught me.

I sat still as she rolled up my shirt sleeve to reveal the wound on the side of my arm. She was completely unphased as she cleaned it with iodine. "Why don't you have any family?" I blurted out. She froze, and stared at me for a moment. I wondered if I was prying too much.

She heaved a sigh. "There was a house fire; faulty wiring. Both of my parents died. I was seven. I spent my whole childhood in foster care, moving around from place to place. I never got adopted. I came close a couple of times, but... I never managed to get over that last hurdle. I guess no one wanted me."

I stared at her as she pressed a cotton ball to the opening of the iodine bottle. She felt the kind of sadness that I did. It was in her eyes. It wasn't a normal kind of sadness that subsided over time. It came and went. Some days you'd wake up and it would be gone; other times it would hit you like a wave. "No one wanted me either," I mumbled.

She grimaced, and kept dabbing at the wound on my arm. "You didn't have parents?"

"I did," I nodded, "But that doesn't mean jack shit when they don't want you there. Hell, my father left me at a shopping mall when I was nine. That was the last time I saw him."

She nodded knowingly, and pulled a strip of gauze out of the first aid kit. "You got friends?" She asked. Her voice was quiet, and she was hyperfocused on the task at hand.

"Not really. I have employees; that's all. They only stick around because they're scared of me." She looked up at me, making eye contact for the first time in at least five minutes.

"Employees... What kind of business do you run?"

"I sell meth," I said blankly. The corners of her mouth turned downwards into a sort of frown, but she nodded her head as if she already knew.

"Nice to know what I'm getting myself into," she chuckled. She finished taping up the gauze on my arm and refilled her first aid kit, tossing it to the side. "You need to take a shower; you're covered in blood." She smoothed out her pants as she stood up, and hummed to herself as she pulled out a towel from her linen closet.

"Leave your clothes on the bathroom floor. I'll wash them while you're showering," she told me. I stood under the hot water and thought of what she had told me before; no one ever wanted her. I found that hard to imagine. She was beautiful; small but fierce. I squeezed a handful of shampoo into my palm. It smelled like her; like pineapple and mango. I wondered why she was single. She seemed like a solitary creature, but I could see the loneliness behind her gaze. She said in the car that she was suicidal. Maybe she brought me back to her house hoping that I would finish the job for her. I couldn't do that. I had already invested too much of my emotions into her. That was something I almost never did. But something about her was different. I couldn't put my finger on it.

I stood under the hot water until it ran lukewarm. The steam dissipated as I pulled back the shower curtain. I grabbed at the towel on the back of the toilet, and dried myself off slowly. My clothes had been washed and dried, and they sat in a neat pile on the bathroom counter. I got dressed in the mirror, studying myself for the first time in ages. I looked tired. Not just like I hadn't gotten enough sleep; I looked tired of everything. I guess I was. Life is a bullshit rat race to the finish. No one gives a shit about anyone else. All they care about is money, appearances, and self satisfaction. I was no different, until I met her.

Suddenly I cared about what happened to her. I thought about my words before I said them. I never did that before. I stepped out of the bathroom to find her sitting cross-legged on her couch, eating something out of a bowl and watching TV.

"There's cereal on the counter if you want some," she said without turning to look at me. I looked through her cabinets for a bowl, eventually pulling one out and pouring some cereal into it. Cocoa Puffs; good choice. I dug through her fridge, looking for milk. It was filled with leftovers; some takeout, and some Tupperware containers filled with different things. I sat down next to her, and looked up at the TV screen. "What are we watching?"

"Black Mirror." 

"What are those things?" I asked, pointing at the screen.

"Autonomous Drone Insects," she told me between mouthfuls of cereal. "They replaced bees when they went extinct."

"What kind of weird futuristic sci-fi shit do you watch?" I snorted.

"It's not futuristic, necessarily. Just sort of an alternate reality. It's social commentary."

I looked at her in fascination. She glanced up at me when she noticed me staring. "What?" She laughed, "It makes me feel better about my own life." She put down her empty cereal bowl on the coffee table and turned her attention back to the TV. My breath caught in my throat when she inched closer to me, her arm brushing against mine.

"I should go," I said in a rush, jumping to my feet. She grabbed my hand as I tried to step away, and looked up at me with big eyes. She looked vulnerable.

"You can stay, if you want."

I stopped in my tracks, and looked at her with curiosity. I could see it in her face; she was desperate for company, and I wasn't in a place to turn it down, either. I nodded slowly. "Yeah, okay. I'll stay."

She smiled at me, and I swallowed hard. "I'm tired," she blurted out. I followed her around as she got ready for bed. I stood in the bathroom doorway and watched her wipe away her makeup. Her skin underneath it all was covered in pale freckles, and her lips were a rosy shade of pink. Her cheeks were flushed, and I couldn't tell if that was her natural skin tone, or if she was blushing.

She handed me a new toothbrush and passed me the toothpaste. I watched her silently in the mirror. I didn't want tomorrow morning to come, because I knew it would be the end of this, whatever it was. I tried to savor every moment in her presence. She pushed past me as I finished brushing my teeth, and disappeared into her bedroom. I followed behind her, and averted my eyes when I saw her unzipping her hoodie in the open doorway.

"You can look, I don't care," she shrugged, pulling her camisole over her head. Her skin was perfectly smooth, and her breasts were perfectly rounded under her pale pink bra. I tried not to stare as she dug through her dresser. I noticed a scar along her left hip bone. It was faded, but medium sized and I couldn't figure out the source of it from its shape.

"What's the scar?" I asked cautiously.

"Fell off a scooter when I was eleven," she laughed. I smiled at her and then looked away when I saw her unhooking her bra.

"You don't care about some creepy guy ogling you while you change?" I asked her, looking back in her direction once she had pulled an oversized t-shirt over her head. She pulled her jeans down over her hips and looked at me with a small smile.

"Never saw much point in being overly modest. It's just a body," she explained. I watched her as she stepped into a pair of fleece pajama pants covered in little pink cats, and she sat down at the end of her bed and turned on the little TV that sat on her dresser.

"Can't sleep in silence," she told me, turning on a rerun of Bob's Burgers. She patted the sheets next to her as she crawled into bed, looking at me expectantly. "Come watch with me." I took a seat next to her, and my heart rate sped up. Never had a girl as gorgeous as her invited me into her bed; and sober, at that. I wondered what I had done to prove my worth to her. She inched closer to me until she was pressed against my side.

"Hope you can fall asleep with the TV on," she murmured, leaning her head against my shoulder. I nodded, feeling almost shaky. I couldn't remember another time I had felt that nervous. She fell asleep against me in record time, and I hoped to god that time would slow down before morning came around. I wanted this to last as long as possible.


	4. Making Friends

She made a friend at work. A tiny pixie-looking girl named Ruby. Her eyes were dark and brooding, and her hair was clipped back into a tight French braid. Her features looked as if she had stepped into a wind tunnel; sharp and pulled back. She was pretty, but nothing compared to Charlotte. I sat on the couch eating reheated Chinese food when Charlotte stepped into the apartment, giggling. I looked up in confusion to find another person standing behind her, staring me down.

"Hi," I muttered, very apparently caught off guard. I was suddenly very glad that I was wearing pants; less than thirty minutes ago, I was walking around in my underwear. I didn't embarrass easily, but Charlotte did. 

"Oh, Ruby, this is Trevor," she told our guest. I waved at her. Ruby looked unimpressed, and suddenly I felt like I was in the way. Charlotte deserved to have a friend who wasn't also her boyfriend. I put down my plate on the coffee table and followed her into the bedroom. "I'm just going to change out of my work clothes. Make yourself comfortable," she told Ruby.

"I missed you," I told Charlotte. I closed the door behind me and leaned against it. She smiled up at me. She looked happy; actually happy. "Who's the girl?"

"I work with her. I told her about a new documentary and she suggested watching it together. I hope you don't mind me kicking you out of the living room for a while. You can stay if you want, but-"

I cut her off. "No, it's fine, babe. I'll just go out for a while; find something to do." I pulled her close to me and pressed a kiss to her forehead.

It was unusually cool outside that night. I shoved my hands into the pockets of my jacket and looked down at my feet, turning my face away from the wind. Late night walks through downtown Los Santos weren't an unusual thing for me. It's just that usually, I was drunk; more of a stumble than a walk, really. I didn't drink as much since I had moved in with Charlotte. The city sucked, but having good company helped. 

I would've been lying if I said I didn't feel a little bit threatened by Ruby's sudden place in Charlotte's life. Until that point, I had had Charlotte to myself. We lived in this sort of bubble, where we were the only people in the world who mattered. She said she liked it that way, but I knew still, part of her wanted a friend. I tried to push aside my jealousy. She deserved a friend; I was happy she found one, and one who apparently liked documentaries as much as she did. This was a good thing.

I returned to the apartment at midnight to find Charlotte curled up on the couch alone, wrapped up her favorite blue fluffy blanket and holding a cup of coffee. I glanced over at the TV; a documentary about serial killers. She looked intently at the screen, only glancing up slightly when I came inside and hung up my jacket by the door. "Whatcha watching?" I asked her. 

"A documentary about my boyfriend," she laughed. She smiled at me as I tossed my boots on the floor and climbed under the blanket with her. She seemed happy; I was glad for that.

"Did you have fun?" I asked her, leaning my head against hers and wrapping my arms around her waist. She nodded emphatically.

"Yeah, I like Ruby." Her fingers intertwined with mine, her eyes still on the TV screen in front of her. "She's so... Normal. Most of the time I just hang out with this crazy meth head." I snorted in response, jabbing her playfully in the arm.

She fell asleep on me midway through her documentary. I pulled her empty mug out of her hands and stretched to place it on the end table beside me. I snuck out from under her blanket and scooped her up gently. She stirred as I carried her into the bedroom and laid her down on the bed. Her brown hair fell over her face, and I brushed it aside with my fingers. She hummed in appreciation when I pulled the blankets up over her.

I wanted to sleep in her bed with her. I loved when she was sleepy. She always snuggled into me more than usual, and it made me feel so lucky; so special. I thought maybe it would be better to leave well enough alone. She was in a good mood. I didn't want to spoil it, but I couldn't resist.

"Can I sleep in here?" I whispered, and her eyes cracked open to look up at me. She held out her arms; opened them up to me, and I didn't hesitate to crawl under the blankets and into her embrace.

"Why do you always ask?" Her sleepy voice was small and higher pitched than normal; it was cute. She laid on her side with one arm tucked under her head on the pillow, and the other pressed between her chest and mine.

"Because sometimes you say no." I brought my hand up to her face, tracing her features with a single finger. I drew little invisible lines over her eyebrows, down her nose, and over her closed eyelids. My thumb traced a line down her jaw and brushed over her lips. She smiled and leaned into my touch.

She was nearly asleep when she mumbled, "You don't have to ask anymore."


	5. Ugly Mistakes

I let her down. I came home drunk and high and I said things I didn't mean. I called her lazy, called her useless; everything someone with depression doesn't want to hear. Hell, if someone said the shit to me that I said to her, I would have killed them on the spot. Instead she shot insults back at me like cannonballs. I was sure that every other person in the apartment building heard our whole fight.

She sneered at me as I threw up in the toilet. I had already stormed into the apartment, broken her lamp, and called her a vile bitch. "Get the fuck away from me!" I wiped the vomit away from my face with the back of my hand and stood up to face her.

"You're disgusting," she snapped, her voice filled with disdain. I felt the rage boiling up inside of me, and I stared her down, trying to intimidate her. "You don't scare me, Trevor," she stated, jabbing me in the chest with her finger.

"Don't touch me, you bitch," I barked at her, pushing her hand away. I stomped out of the bathroom, exhaling loudly as she followed behind me. I paced back and forth across the bedroom floor as she stared at me, leaned against the doorframe with her arms crossed over her chest.

"How dare you come into my home and call me names and break my things," she growled, her feet still planted in the doorway. "I let you stay here and sleep with me and this is what you do?! I share my life with you, you asshole! At least treat me nice, goddamn it!" Her voice wavered and cracked at the end of her statement, and I could see tears welling up in her eyes. She never could keep the tears inside when she was angry.

"Share your life?" I scoffed. "What fucking life?" She inhaled sharply, and let out a little whimper, clamping her hand over her mouth. I didn't care at the moment; all I felt was anger.

She moved to center herself in my path, and wiped away her tears before she yelled at me again. "Get out!" She shouted, "Get the hell out!" She shoved me out of the bedroom and towards the front door. I didn't give a fuck; I'd slept on the streets a million times. What was another night?

"Fuck you!" I screamed as she slammed the front door in my face. I could hear her sobbing inside, but I didn't care. I stormed downstairs and out into the street. My steps were clumsy and unbalanced and everything around me was spinning. I threw up behind a dumpster and fell asleep in a darkened alley. 

I woke up early in the morning with a raging headache and stiff joints. I had gotten so used to Charlotte's comfy bed and couch that I had forgotten the unforgiving feeling of pavement. The physical pain wasn't nearly as bad as the thoughts swirling around in my head. I made myself sick. I hurt her a lot. I called her names. I made her cry. I had hurt a lot of people; killed a fuck ton of them, too. But she was special. I wanted to make her happy; make her feel loved. I failed at that. I hoisted myself off of the ground, groaning as my joints popped and cracked. Middle age was not treating me well. 

I showed back up to her apartment like a dog that had just gotten in trouble for chewing on a pair of shoes. I hung my head in shame and I looked at her with a pathetic expression. I brought her flowers; she threw them back at me. I followed her into the kitchen, and she ignored me as she made her breakfast.

"Please, sweetheart; I'm sorry," I pleaded, following her around. She glared at me as she held a sizzling pan of eggs in front of her. I moved out of the way and watched her scoop them onto a plate. "I made a mistake! I know I said bad things! I hurt you and I'm so sorry!"

"Please leave," she said quietly, her voice monotone and vacant of any emotion.

"Not until you talk to me. Please?"

She put her plate down on the table and sat down with a heavy sigh. She stabbed at her eggs as if she was taking out her anger on them. She glanced at me as I sat down across from her and looked at her with pleading eyes. "I've relied on you too much. I know now that I can only rely on myself. I made a stupid mistake letting myself count on you. Don't worry; I won't be a bother to you anymore." 

I leapt off my chair and dropped to my knees beside her. I clasped my hands together and looked up at her desperately. "Charlotte, you could never be a bother to me. Please, don't throw me out. I know I fucked up; real bad. But I'll make it up to you. I can show you how much I care! Haven't I proved it to you in the past? I can do it again."  
“I asked you to leave,” Her voice was strained as she spoke, and I could hear the sadness as she spoke.  
She was the only person I ever truly cared for, and now she was throwing me out. I knew I deserved it; I was an asshole. “But I love you,” I said softly. I was desperate for her forgiveness.

Her eyes had softened slightly as she looked at me again. She dropped her fork on the table and turned her face away from me. I knew she was trying not to cry. "You were so mean.” Her voice wobbled, and her eyes looked watery.

She was right. I was beyond mean. I was cruel; I was brutal and hurtful and wrong. Sure, she had said things back to me, but I would never blame her for that. I deserved it. "I'm sorry," I whispered. I grabbed her hand and pressed a kiss to her clenched fist. Her muscles relaxed when my lips made contact with her skin.

"Okay," she said quietly, "But you have to replace my lamp." I nodded frantically, scooting closer to her and wrapping my arms around her waist.

"I can do that. I'll do that. Thank you, sweetheart; thank you."


	6. Fluffle

I found him on a little side street in Los Santos; a tiny grey kitten with dirty, matted down fur and big green eyes. He couldn't have been older than nine or ten weeks old. I watched someone's dog chase after him, and the heartless bastard kept walking. Fuck, I'm a murderer and I still think that's heartless. I coaxed him out from under the dumpster where he hid with the scraps of fried chicken from my Cluckin’ Bell bag. He looked up at me in fear as he scarfed down the chicken I had dropped on the pavement for him. I held out a hand to him; he approached it slowly.

He sniffed me for a minute before deciding I was no longer a threat. He headbutted my hand and I gingerly scratched his head. He must have been lonely and desperate for someone to find him. I picked him up carefully with one hand and held him to my chest. He let out tiny mews as I carried him back to the apartment but didn't fight against my grasp on him. I placed him down on the floor as I shut the front door behind me and watched him take a few cautious steps.

I knew Charlotte had kept all of the supplies from her last cat in the hall closet after he died. She couldn't bear to throw it away. Instead, it sat untouched in the back corner of the closet; an unopened bag of cat food, a basket full of toys, bowls and brushes, and a scratching post. I pulled it all out, leaving everything in a pile in the hallway. I tore open the bag of cat food and dumped some into a little metal bowl. I definitely poured out too much, but it didn't matter. I placed it on the floor in front of the kitten, and he sniffed it before taking a few tentative bites.

Charlotte came home from work an hour later to find me sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of the little grey ball of fluff, trying to get him to play with me. "What the fuck is that?" She dropped her bag on the kitchen table and approached the two of us.

"I found him," I explained, staring up at her. She knelt down beside me and squinted her eyes at him, studying him in all of his muddy, fluffy glory.

"You could've at least given him a bath," she sighed.

"I know, I know. He's filthy."

"Well, to be fair, I do let you sleep in my bed. So I guess I shouldn't judge," she chuckled. I looked at her with mock anger on my face, and she stuck her tongue out at me. "What is the goal here? You brought a dirty cat into our home and spilled cat food all over the floor." Her words were angry but her voice was calm.

"I don't know," I shrugged, "I thought we could keep him. I know you miss Otto and I just thought maybe this would help."

She looked down at the floor in front of her, suddenly looking as though she might cry. I scooted closer to her and grabbed her hand, closing both of mine over it. "Was this a bad idea?"

"I just don't know if I'm ready," she sighed. Her voice was quiet and shaky as she held back tears. I knew what her last cat had meant to her. She adopted him when she moved to the city. She was lonely and he was her saving grace. They spent years together; just the two of them. And then the vet found a tumor, and just like that, she lost the only thing she loved. I knew she was afraid to bond with another pet.

"I can bring him to a shelter if you want," I said hesitantly. I was afraid to admit that in the short time since I had found him, I had grown fond of the little fuzz ball.

"No," she rushed to say. "No, I'll keep him. I want him." I smiled at her. She crawled into my lap and dropped her head against my shoulder, staring at the little cat. "Thank you," she exhaled. She pushed herself up off the floor and disappeared into the bathroom before returning with a wet towel. She sat down beside him and wrapped him up in the fabric, rubbing him down until he was mostly clean. 

I watched her from my place on the floor as she struggled to brush out his matted fur. He wriggled out of her grasp each time the brush made contact with him. She eventually gave up, choosing instead to just lob off clumps of his fur with a pair of scissors. I stifled a laugh as she finished up. His fur stuck out every which way, and he had large patches of fur that were much shorter than the rest. He looked like he had gotten into a fight with an electric razor.

"What?!" Charlotte laughed, already knowing what I'd say.

"He looks ridiculous," I snorted, doubling over as I laughed. She smacked my arm playfully, laughing along with me. She took a deep breath and tried to compose herself. "What do you want to name him?" I asked.

Her eyes lit up and a smile stretched across her face. I knew she had a witty response up her sleeve. "Mr. Business," she said enthusiastically and grinned at me as if she had just cracked the best joke of all time.

"I am not calling him that," I said bluntly. She scowled at me and then sat quietly for a moment, studying the little cat.

"How about Fluffle?" She suggested, her voice soft. I looked at her with curiosity and repeated what she had just suggested. "Yeah," she nodded, "I had this stuffed cat when I was a kid that I carried everywhere with me. I moved around to all different foster homes, but Fluffle always came with me."

"I like it." I smiled at her, and extended a hand out to pet the patchy looking kitten. Fluffle.

She carried him into the bedroom that night, and my heart melted as I watched her place him on one side of her pillow and crawl under the sheets. She scooted backwards until her back touched my chest, and rested her head next to Fluffle. Her hand poked out from under the sheets to scratch him behind his ear, and he settled in next to her, curling up in a little ball.

"Do you like him?" I whispered into her ear. She reached a hand around behind her to stroke my hair softly. Her hand rested on my cheek and she nodded against the pillow.

"I love him," she murmured. "And I love you."


	7. In The Beginning: Part 2

I couldn't leave. I couldn't give up on whatever I had felt that night with her. She made me feel calm. Around her, I felt more normal than I ever had before. It's as if I had been on stormy waters my entire life. She was like the eye of the storm. That first night, everything was eerily calm. I waited for the other shoe to drop. I was sure somehow, something would go wrong. But it never did. She made me breakfast; sent me on my way with a hug and a 'thank you for the company.'

But I didn't want to leave. I was afraid to tell her. I never got close to people. What if she betrayed me or left me like everyone else always had? I took a chance. I went back to the bar. The bar that I intended to rob, and instead found something real.

She greeted me with a smile when I walked in. It was warm and it hit me right in the chest. My stomach flipped and I forced my legs to move forward. She leaned against the bar as I sat down in front of her. "Hey stranger." Her voice was like warm honey; smooth and sweet and so inviting. "You came back." She smiled at me.

"How are you?" I asked her. She passed a beer across the counter to me and hesitantly touched my hand for just a moment.

"Better now."

I watched her as she made drinks and chatted with customers. Occasionally, I would hear her laugh ring out through the chatter, and every other noise dulled and disappeared. There was only her. I waited all night for her to close up the bar.

"You gonna try and rob me again?" She teased me as she counted the money in the drawers. I shrugged.

"Don't see much point. Clearly you aren't scared of me." I grinned at her.

She spoke again without looking up from the task at hand. "You got that right, champ." She sealed the cash from the drawer in an envelope and disappeared into the back room. I grabbed the pen she had been using and doodled on a napkin as she cleaned up in back. "Whatcha drawing?" She asked, wiping her wet hands on her jeans.

"It's a dick," I told her blankly, holding up the napkin for her to see.

"Excellent self portrait," she retorted, "I can really see the resemblance." Holy shit, I think I was in love. She waved me over, and I followed her out the back door. I hesitated when she headed towards her car. I didn't want to impose on her space by assuming I could go home with her again.

"What, you're not going to grace me with your presence again tonight?" She turned to look at me, opening the driver's side door. I paused for a moment before nodding and jogging over to her car. I sat quietly beside her as she drove home, and followed her up to her apartment.

"Hungry?" She asked, pulling a frozen pizza out of the freezer. I nodded. I moved across the room to take a seat on the couch, and stared at the painting on the wall above the TV. It looked abstract; an ocean of blue tones freckled with gold and silver paint. She flopped down next to me, and followed my gaze up to the painting. "Checking out my work?" She said.

"You painted that?" I was impressed. It looked professional; something you would see hung up in a museum for stuffy rich people to observe.

She nodded. "I used to paint a lot," she said blankly. She was distracted; scrolling through Netflix, searching for something to watch.

"But not anymore," I asked, my question coming out as more of a statement.

She shrugged. "Depression takes a lot out of you. I don't have the energy or the attention span to paint anymore." She was depressed. It made me feel sad, knowing that someone so special, so talented, was plagued with something so horrible.

"The other night, you said you were suicidal..." I trailed off.

"Yeah, I guess. It's like, I'm not going to kill myself necessarily, but if something were to happen to me... If something were to kill me, I would welcome it." My heart sank. I knew that feeling. I'd felt that for years. I inched closer to her and touched her hand the way she had touched mine at the bar. She smiled at me for a moment, and her fingers intertwined with mine. The oven timer went off, ending the tender moment we had just shared. I cleared my throat awkwardly when she stood up. I watched her as she sliced up the pizza and pulled down plates from the cabinet. She handed me a can of soda and a plate and sat down beside me with her own.

"Black Mirror again?" I asked as she clicked through the episodes, looking for a particular one.

"This one's my favorite," she told me as the title theme played on the TV. We sat side by side, quietly eating and watching TV. It felt comfortable, like it was always supposed to be this way. She slid her empty plate onto the coffee table and grabbed at the blue fuzzy blanket draped over the back of the couch. She smoothed it out over her lap and tossed the other half over me, inching closer so it covered us both.

"How are they switching decades like that?" I asked, watching the TV in confusion.

"It's a simulation," she explained. "It's not a real place; it's all computer generated." I turned my body to look at her with a smile. "What? Why are you looking at me like that?" She laughed.

I shook my head at her. "You fascinate me," I told her. She giggled and looked at me with big doe eyes. "How come someone like you spends so much time alone? Anyone would be lucky to spend time with you."

She leaned back against the couch and let out a heavy sigh. "I don't really know. I've just always been alone. It's my own fault; I isolate myself. I think all those years in foster care just made me very wary of other people. I don't get close to anyone. It's not that I don't want to. I just... Don't know how."

"I never had a single friend, growing up," I told her, trying to make her feel better. "No one liked me. I guess things never really change too much."

She stared at me for a moment, as if she was studying me. She looked into my eyes, and my heart pounded in my chest. "Well, I like you," she told me with a smile. Her eyes stayed focused on me for a moment, before she snapped out of it. "You're pretty cool for someone who threatened to pull a gun on me." She turned off the TV and disappeared into her bedroom without a word. She reappeared a few minutes later in her pajamas, and gestured for me to follow her. She handed me a toothbrush; my toothbrush. She had kept it after the last time I slept over. Had she hoped that I would come back? I stood next to her in the mirror as we brushed our teeth. She looked so small next to me. Small but mighty, I thought.

I watched her take off her makeup and wash her face. She looked sad when she glanced up at the mirror to slather moisturizer over her skin. She always looked just a bit sad. It lingered in her eyes, even when she smiled. It made me want to cry. I still barely knew her, but somehow, I felt her hurt.

"I got new flannel sheets," she told me excitedly as she climbed into bed. She patted the space next to her and I climbed under the blankets with her.

"Why do you keep it so cold in here?" I asked her.

She shrugged. "I like blankets." She moved closer and reached across me to grab the TV remote off of the night stand. She settled in by my side, her hip pressed against mine. She pushed an arm under her pillow and rested her head on it; her face was right next to mine, and I fought off the urge to kiss her. "Though if you slept in my bed every night, I wouldn't even need so many blankets. You're warm." She flashed me a shy smile, and pulled the blankets up around her face, covering her mouth and her nose. Her blue eyes peeked out from between the sheets and her hair, and my breath caught in my throat. She was perfect, I swear.

She inched closer to me until her head was resting against mine, and took a deep breath. "Goodnight, Trevor."


	8. What Am I Worth?

Her eyes were red from crying. I sat on the floor next to the bed, all of my weight on my knees. You know how sometimes when you cry a lot, I mean after a real meltdown, suddenly your body just shuts down? It's like you cried all of your energy out, and it's suddenly a struggle just to stay awake. That's where she was at. But she's always been stubborn about sleep. She'll fight off sleep until she passes out. Her eyelids drooped, and her body had relaxed, but her mind was still awake. She looked at me through sleepy eyes, and reached for my hand.

"I love you," she whispered. Her eyes were sad and empty. If I were a more insecure man, I would’ve thought she didn’t mean it. But I knew she did. She shows her love for me in everything she does. She touches me like I’m the only thing on earth that matters. She kisses me like she’s never going to see me again. I don’t know what made her think I was worthy of her love, but I try not to think too hard about it. I squeezed her hand in mine, and brushed her hair away from her face.

"I love you, too," I told her. She mustered up a weak smile.

"Thank you," she said. I looked at her quizzically.

"For what?"

"For being here," she answered me. I had never thought of being there for her as a chore or a favor. It was just something I did for someone I love. I climbed into bed and settled in under the sheets behind her. I reached for the remote on the nightstand and then pulled her close to me.

"Whatcha wanna watch?" I asked her. She laid beside me quietly for a few minutes. I could tell she was mulling over my question. I knew why she watched so many movies and so much TV. It was an escape for her. She told me once that movies and TV brought her somewhere else. I had always relied on drugs and alcohol for that. She chose a less self destructive route; I was thankful for that. 

I knew her well enough to know her moods. She watched sitcoms and cartoons when she was depressed. Reality TV was a distraction, and documentaries and any other type of show were saved for her good days. She took the remote from my hand and turned on Bob's Burgers; no surprise there.

She turned over under the sheets so her chest was pressed against mine and her face was buried in my neck. She spoke softly to me, her voice slightly muffled. "Why are you still here?"

My fingers tangled into her hair, and I stroked her head gently. "What do you mean?"

"I'm more effort than I'm worth. Why are you still here?" She sniffled, and I could tell she was trying not to cry again.

I was quiet for a minute. Have you ever had someone who could make you feel calm just by sitting next to you? That's how she makes me feel. She never had to even say a word; just her presence made me feel at ease. That means a lot coming from a rage-filled, violent meth addict. But she never saw that side of me. Not because I didn't show it to her; no, she witnessed that rage many times. Instead, she chose to let it go. She pretended like I wasn't a maniac; or maybe she really believed it. She only saw the soft side of me, the one that I never let anyone else see. How could she not be worth the effort?

"You're underestimating just how much you're worth to me," I whispered to her. She folded her arms up against her chest so they were trapped between us, and she inhaled as she snuggled her face closer to me.

"I really do love you, Trevor," she told me. I wrapped my arms around her, hugging her tightly. She always felt so small in my embrace; so fragile.

"I really love you, too. Don't sell yourself short."

She fell asleep slowly, still pressed against me. I listened as her breathing slowed and evened out. I wondered how I could be so lucky. A year ago, I had been living alone in a shitty little trailer, not giving a shit about whether I lived or died. I used to fall asleep in alleys and wake up hungover and miserable. All I could feel was anger and loneliness. But I held her as she slept, and I would've killed anyone who threatened to take this away from me without batting an eye. Somehow, I managed to live as normal a life as I could with her.

She felt guilty about the piles of mail and laundry, both clean and dirty. She felt bad about the mess that she didn't have the energy to clean up. I didn't give a shit. I had her to come home to, real food, and a warm bed. She kept me grounded. I asked nothing more of her than to be there. I would kill anyone who insinuated that she was less than perfect. In all of her tears and her messy apartment and her grumpy moods, she was perfect.


	9. In The Beginning: Part 3

I had gone into the bar three nights in a row, and there was no sign of Charlotte. The girl behind the bar told me she had called out sick each day. I sat there on the third night, downing a beer and thinking about her. Her words reverberated in my head. _'If something were to kill me, I would welcome it.'_ I left a wad of cash on the counter and left in a hurry. I walked to her apartment; once again, I had forgotten where I left my truck.

I knocked on the door and waited nervously, my stomach doing flips as I stood there. She answered the door in her pajamas. Her hair was tied up in a messy bun on the top of her head, and she had no makeup on. She looked exhausted. She had dark circles under her eyes and she looked drained and emotionally vacant.

"Trevor?" She croaked. She didn't sound sick, but she did sound sad. I smiled at her. "Oh God, I don't want you to see me like this." She fussed with her hair, trying to make it look more presentable.

"You look beautiful," I reassured her. She gave me a half-hearted smile and opened the door to let me in.

"What are you doing here?" She questioned me. She sat down on the couch, folding her legs up underneath herself and pulling her blanket up over her lap. I sat down next to her and turned to look in her direction.

"You haven't been at the bar for the last few nights. I just wanted to make sure you're okay."

She smiled an empty smile at me, and looked down at her hands in her lap. She picked at her nails, clearly avoiding eye contact. "Oh, yeah. I haven't been feeling well."

I knew what she meant. She wasn't sick; she was sad. Her depression had crept up on her. I knew how it felt. I'd spent my whole life fighting off the waves of depression. It made me sad that she felt she had to lie about her reasons for staying home. Most people don't understand.

I reached out a hesitant hand and brushed the stray strands of hair out of her face and behind her ear. "You can talk to me," I told her. She scooted closer to me and laid her head on my shoulder. She took a long, shaky breath.

"I'm so tired, Trevor. I'm so tired of fighting."

I wrapped my arms around her, and her whole body relaxed under my touch. This was the most contact we had had since we met, and it felt wonderful. Maybe the context wasn't ideal; I didn't want her to feel sad. But it felt so right, being so close to her. She was soft and warm and she felt so small in my arms.

"Me too," I sighed. She looked up at me. Her eyes were watery and her lips were pulled downward into a frown.

"I just don't want to fight it anymore." I moved my hand to the side of her face and wiped away a tear from her cheek with my thumb.

"Maybe we can fight it together," I said hopefully. She wrapped her arms around my waist and nodded against my shoulder.

"Why did you come here, Trevor? Why do you like me? I'm boring and I'm a downer."

I shook my head at her. "You've got it all wrong," I told her, "You're special. I see myself in you. Not the bad parts; you could never be what I've become. But the other parts; the sad parts. I know your pain. I feel it. But you make me happy. Like actually happy, not like the temporary high I feel when I smoke up or when I drink. It's like real happiness. I've never felt that before."

"You're the only thing that feels real," she told me, squeezing her eyes closed as the tears spilled out onto her face. "Thank you, Trevor."

I made her dinner. I've never been much of a cook. I made her pasta with spaghetti sauce from a jar. She sat on the couch, curled up under her blanket in a tired daze. The TV was turned down low and she watched me plate up the pasta and pour her a glass of water. She thanked me when I handed her her dinner, and she picked at it slowly.

"Please stay with me tonight," She pleaded. I nodded, silently obliging. As if I would have said no to that. She left her dishes on the coffee table. She always did; she never bothered to clean them up until the next morning. "Come on," she gestured for me to follow her. I stood in the doorway to the bathroom and watched her brush out her knotted hair. Gently, she placed her hands on my arms and pulled me close to her. Her fingers traced the hemline of my shirt and she pulled it up and over my head. She looked vulnerable, but not nearly as vulnerable as I felt. Her palms were pressed against me and my heart was racing. She smiled at me, and my chest hurt.  
  
"I just want to take a shower," she said. It came out as almost a whisper. I watched her as she turned on the water. She undressed in front of me. She was perfect. I tried not to stare, but she didn't seem bothered by it. "Well, come on."  
  
My eyes lit up and I undressed quickly and followed her into the shower. She turned to look at me, and pulled me gently under the warm water. She stepped closer to me, and wrapped her arms around my neck. Her head was pressed against me as she listened to my heartbeat. "You're nervous," she said. I swallowed hard. She laid a soft hand on my cheek. Her smile was sweet and relaxed. She looked sleepy; almost in a dream-like state. And then her lips were on mine. She cupped my face in her hands and she kissed me; softly, gently.  
  
My breath caught in my throat when she pulled away. She turned away from me and I watched her work shampoo into her hair. She massaged the suds in her hands into my thinning hair. I watched her lather herself up. She pressed herself against me; her skin was soft and slippery. She blinked away the droplets of water on her eyelashes as she rinsed off. I closed my eyes as she cleaned the soap suds off of me too. Her touch was so relaxing, it could put me to sleep.  
  
She pulled a spare towel down from the back of the door. Had she left that out for me? I dried off, staring at her as she wrapped herself up in her towel. She disappeared into her room and came back moments later with a small pile of clothes. "Here," she said quietly, "I got these for you; for when you come over." She handed me a pair of new sweatpants. Her cheeks flushed, and she turned away to get dressed. I slipped them on and left my towel crumpled up on the back of the toilet. She left hers in a pile on the bathroom floor, and watched me in the mirror as we brushed our teeth.  
  
I inhaled her scent as I laid next to her in bed. Pineapple and mango; especially strong after just getting out of the shower. She turned onto her side to look at me, and I followed suit. Her face was calm, relaxed. She traced the dotted line tattooed around my neck with her thumb, smiling softly to herself. She pressed her face into the crook of my neck. Her hair was wet, and it soaked the edge of my pillow; I didn't care. She said she couldn't fall asleep in silence, but she did that night. 


	10. Jealousy

Jealousy used to be an unfamiliar feeling to me. I had no reason to be jealous. I don't care about material items, and I never had someone in my life to be proud of. She changed everything. Jealousy crept into me and took over like a big green ugly monster. I got angry, irrational. I refused to listen to reason; I could only listen to the voices in my head.

I shoved my hands into my pockets as I made my way up to the bar. Ruby was there with Charlotte that night. The two of them handled customers differently. Ruby had a sharp tongue, and didn't take shit from anyone. Charlotte swallowed her sarcasm and her wit and put on a sweet face for the regulars. The tips that came along with the sweet facade didn't hurt, either.

She looked gorgeous that night. Her hair fell around her face in big, loose curls, and her eyes stood out against a deep blue top. She batted her eyes at me as I sat down in front of her. She knew she had me wrapped around her finger; just one look could get me. 

"Hey, handsome," she purred. God, she had me. I stuttered out a hello. She grinned at me as she passed a beer across the bar.

"How's work going?" I asked her, leaning forward on my elbows.

She rolled her eyes and let out a groan. "Same shit, different day. I just want to go home." I tipped my head and frowned at her.

"I'll keep you company," I offered. I frequently would sit at the bar for hours, just waiting for her to get out of work. I didn't like to be alone very much since I'd moved in with her. The voices in my head took over when I was alone for too long. They tried to ruin my relationship with her. They told me to do bad things; I didn’t want to. She smiled at me before being whisked away by Ruby. The bar was busy that night and it was all hands on deck.

I listened to her talking to her regulars as I stared out the front windows. "Tony, nice to see you." No wonder she got so many tips. Most of the customers were men. With a voice that sweet and a face like hers, any man would go weak at the knees.

"How's it goin', sweetheart?" I turned to look at the man sitting next to me at the bar. His voice was low and gruff as he spoke to her, and he stared at her with pure lust in his eyes. I was the one who got to call her sweetheart. I wanted to strangle him. I wanted to jump out of my chair and choke the life out of him. I cleared my throat and stared down at the counter. She smiled at him as she passed him a gin and tonic across the bar.

"Lookin' good tonight, doll," he told her.

"Thanks, Tony," she laughed. My rage bubbled up inside of me. I wanted to kill him. I wanted to see the light leave his eyes. And she was actually humoring him. Maybe she liked him better than me. I convinced myself as I sat beside that asshole that I was being played for a fool. Charlotte didn't love me. She was putting on a show just like she was right now. I eyed the man next to me. He stared her down every time she turned away. 

I downed the rest of my beer and slammed the bottle down on the counter with such force that both Charlotte and Ruby jumped and turned to look at me with wide eyes. I stood up in a rush and tore my jacket away from the back of the barstool, storming out the front door. I heard Charlotte call out to me in concern as I left. I didn't care. I stood by the back door and lit a cigarette. I paced back and forth, breathing heavy as I tried to calm myself. I was in a full on panic. I was going to lose Charlotte at some point or another. It was only a matter of time before she found someone who would treat her better than I could.

I could kill the man who had the nerve to call my girl ‘sweetheart.’ I could kill him right then. I could go back inside and strangle him; watch him struggle as I choked the life out of him. I wanted to kill him. I took a few steps towards the front of the building. No. I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t let her see that side of me. But he had looked at her like a piece of meat. I knew what he wanted with her and it made me feel physically sick. I let out a strangled yell and sent my fist crashing into the side of the dumpster. I recoiled and grasped my hand in pain. My knuckles were skinned and bloody. I was a goddamn fool. How could anybody actually love me?

I jumped when the back door swung open suddenly. Charlotte looked perplexed as she stared at me. “I figured you’d be out here,” she told me. “What happened?” God, she was so pretty when she looked at me. I couldn’t focus on that at the moment; my mind was racing. 

“That guy! Who is that guy?! The one who called you sweetheart; who is he?” I tried not to shout, but my voice came out louder than intended. She looked stunned.

“That’s Tony. What about him?”

“I’m the one who gets to call you that! Who does he think he is? He looked at you like a goddamn predator!” I paced back and forth as I spoke, and she caught me by my wrist, stopping me in my tracks.

“Trevor, he’s a creep. He does the same thing to Ruby.” I knew I was acting like a madman. I couldn’t stop.

“I’m gonna lose you. Maybe not to him, but to someone who comes into that bar. Hell, I got you because I went into that bar! I should’ve known you wouldn’t be happy staying with me!” Her eyes had softened, and she looked almost sympathetic. I didn’t want sympathy. I didn’t know what I wanted.

“You make me happy. Only you. I don’t want any of the guys that come in there.” Her eyes trailed down to my right hand, and she grabbed it, pulling me towards her. “What did you do?”

“It doesn’t matter.” I brushed off her concern and pulled her back to the same topic that she had clearly grown tired of. “How many guys like him are there?” She huffed and put her hands on her hips, looking cross with me. “How many?!”

“I don’t know, Trevor! A few. It doesn’t matter! I don’t fucking want them. I’m sorry, but greasy old guys with beer bellies and unhappy wives at home aren’t exactly my type.” My shoulders dropped. I was being irrational. I saw it now. I was stupid and impulsive and I overreacted. That was what I did best. She looked at me with concern as she took my bloodied hand in hers. She inspected my wounds, not caring about my blood on her hands. She wiped it off on her black pants and hiked up the strap of her purse onto her shoulder. “Let’s go home,” she said quietly.

“Don’t you have to finish your shift?”

She shook her head. “I told Ruby there was an emergency, which I guess wasn’t entirely untrue. Let’s go home and take care of that hand.” I hung my head in shame as I followed her to the car. I knew she wasn’t exactly happy with me. I couldn’t blame her. I sat quietly and stared out the window as she drove us home. I didn’t deserve her.

“Why are you with me?” I blurted out as we jogged up the stairs to her apartment. She side-eyed me as she unlocked the door, and I could see the gears turning in her head. “I mean, I do stupid shit. I do bad things; really bad. And you still love me. Why?”

She pushed me aside gently and locked the door before following me into the kitchen. She looked up at me, and I couldn’t read her face. I couldn’t tell if she was still upset or not. I wouldn’t have blamed her. “Because, when you do bad things, that’s not you. That’s not Trevor. That’s not the Trevor I love, at least. The Trevor that I love is the one who lies next to me in bed and tells me that he wants to get better. And you will. And I’ll be there.”

The warmth of her voice washed over me like a wave, and I suddenly felt as though I could cry. She could see the real me. No one ever had before. I was human to her. I pulled her towards me with more force than I had intended, and she came crashing into my chest with a little yelp. I wrapped my arms around her tightly and she let out a happy sigh. Nothing in the world was better than knowing she wanted me as much as I wanted her. I couldn’t live without her at this point; not really. I could go on surviving, sure, but surviving isn’t living. I knew what living felt like for the first time with her, and I could never let that go.


	11. In the Beginning: Part 4

Her kiss kept me coming back for more. I was addicted to her. Her voice was soft and warm and I listened to it like a song. Her hair smelled sweet and her face was perfect. I absorbed every word she spoke, and her touch was like nothing else in the world. I didn't deserve her. But for some crazy reason, she was just as infatuated with me. She pulled me into her apartment every time I showed up; her kiss was hungry and filled with urgency.

But as time went on, she became curious about me; curious about my past. I feared the day that she would see what kind of a monster I am. Surely, she would throw me out of her apartment, tell me to never talk to her again. I couldn't stand the thought. But when she started asking questions, I couldn't bring myself to lie.

She sat across from me at the kitchen table, looking at me curiously. "Why the meth business? Why not something more... You know... Legal?" She asked me. Her expression was soft, non-judgmental.

"Do I look like someone who would work in an office?" I snorted. She smirked at me, and then waited for me to give her an explanation. I sighed. "I had a purpose once. I joined the Royal Canadian Airforce. Learned to fly and everything. I loved it. It was my dream. And then the bitch that did my psych evaluation told me I was 'unstable' and I got kicked out. Grounded for life."

"What a bitch," she agreed. "But don't you have a hangar?"

I rolled my eyes and looked at her with a deadpan expression. "Haven't we discussed the whole criminal aspect of my life already?"

"Point taken," She snickered. "Why did she think you were unstable?"

I felt my anxiety creeping up on me. She hadn't seen the bad side of me yet; the side that yells, curses, breaks things... Kills people. "Because I am," I blurted out. She looked at me quizzically. "Sweetheart, you've only seen half of me. I've got rage issues; serious ones. I've killed people. A lot of people. Only reason I'm sitting here with you and not in a federal penitentiary is because I'm good at hiding the evidence."

She looked at me blankly. I swallowed hard, afraid that I had just scared her off. I waited for her to kick me out, call the police... Do anything. "Well, if you kill me, you won't even have to hide it because no one will know I'm gone." She was joking with me. She had completely brushed off the fact that I just told her I was a murderer and started making jokes. "Just don't kill me in my sleep, alright? That's a lame way to go."

I sat in front of her in awe. My mouth hung open and I was at a loss for words. "Are you seriously cracking jokes right now? I just told you I kill people."

Her expression softened, and she reached a hand across the table to grab mine. "We all do things we don't like to admit. And by the way," she said, her lips turning back upwards into a grin, "I won't turn you in. Unless you don't do the dishes for me tonight. Then I will most definitely turn you in."

I couldn't smile at her joke. I couldn't laugh. I was wrapped up in my thoughts. I had come to the crashing realization that if I were to go into a rage, she could end up dead. She could be an innocent victim and her blood would be on my hands. I took a few heavy breaths, trying to calm myself.

"Hey," she said softly, pulling me out of my thoughts, "I was just kidding. Are you okay?"

"I don't want to hurt you," I whispered. She looked at me for a moment, analyzing what I had just said. Wordlessly, she got up from her seat and sat down in my lap. She wrapped her arms around me, tipped her head until her forehead touched mine. She looked into my eyes and smiled softly.

"You won't," she said.

"I could. I could hurt you; kill you."

"Well, now," she whispered into my ear, "Why would you do that?" I swallowed hard and gently pushed her face away from mine. I wanted her to know how serious I was.

"Charlotte, I can't control my temper. I hurt people. I say things I don't mean. It's only a matter of time until I do it to you." I looked away from her, feeling the shame take over. I hated myself. I hated the thing I had become and I hated that I wasn't worthy of her. I hated being afraid that I would hurt her or kill her.

"Well, if you don't mean what you say when you're angry, then there's no harm in saying it, is there?" She gave me a sweet smile and cupped my chin in her hand. I pushed her hand away and shook my head.

"That's not how it works and you know it." She tipped her head and frowned at me. She looked so pure and so innocent. I was just a psychotic middle-aged junkie. What did I do to deserve her attention?

"It's okay, Trevor," she said softly. Her voice comforted me, made me feel calm. She had some sort of power over me, I swear. She laid her hands on either side of my face and pressed her lips to mine. We sat in silence for a few minutes, her head resting against mine, her arms around me.

"I need you." My voice came out weak and quiet.

"I'm here," she said.


	12. Another Life

I had been living with her for a while, but my trailer sat untouched in Sandy Shores. I still made trips out there to manage my business, but I rarely went inside my old home. It was a painful reminder of a different time. I was lonely then; angry and depressed and all alone. Charlotte wanted to see my old life. I kept her away. 

I was ashamed of the way I had been living. My trailer was always a mess. Actually, "a mess" is a bit of an understatement. I had been living in squalor. Trash covered the floors, dust and dirt covered every flat surface, and roaches had taken over my place of living. My cabinets were always empty and almost every piece of furniture I owned was run down or broken. No one would have ever looked at the outside of my trailer and had any desire to go inside. It was an embarrassment. Still, clothes hung in my old wardrobe; things that I wanted. My guns and weapons sat untouched, and I wanted them back. I had to revisit my past. 

I sat at the kitchen table, cleaning and reloading a small pistol. I never entered Sandy Shores without a weapon. In fact, I rarely went anywhere without a weapon of some sort. Charlotte spotted me from the doorway to the bedroom where she was pulling a sundress over her head. She knew about this particular day trip; she wanted to come. She pleaded with me as she sat across from me at the table, clasping her hands together in front of her and turning her lower lip downwards into a pout.

"No," I told her simply. I knew she wanted to know more about my old life. That's what I was trying to avoid.

"Please? I'll be lonely without you here. I hate when you go out there and leave me here alone. I want to come." And there was the guilt trip. She knew I was a sucker for that. I hated seeing her upset. I let out a frustrated sigh. I didn't want to talk about this anymore.

"It hurts my feelings that you hide parts of your life from me. Why won't you let me come?" She pouted.

We sat in silence for a moment as I fiddled with a spare bullet on the table. "It's embarrassing, Charlotte," I admitted to her. She reached across the table and took my hands in hers. They looked so small wrapped around mine. I wanted to put a ring on her finger. I would never have the courage to ask.

"You tried to rob me the first time we met," she snorted, "Doesn't get much more embarrassing than that." I rolled my eyes and shot her a deadpan expression. She looked at me with a goofy smile on her face for a moment, before returning to a more serious demeanor. "Please," she said quietly. "I would never judge you."

I stared down at our hands, still clasped together. "Okay," I exhaled. I felt anxious; more anxious than I had felt in years. What if she was disgusted? What if she was afraid? What if she wanted to leave me?

She sat next to me in silence on the trip out to Sandy Shores. She watched as the scenery slowly changed from city to desert. It was hotter out there. She fanned herself with her hands as we approached my trailer. My palms were sweating, and not from the heat. I tried to hide the fact that my hands were shaking as I gripped the steering wheel. She saw. She placed a gentle hand on my thigh, giving me a light, reassuring squeeze. God, she deserved someone so much better than me.

We pulled up to my old home, and I parked my car on the street. She stared at it intently before turning to look at me. I couldn't read her expression. She gave me a weak smile. I could tell she was trying hard to make me feel at ease. I rounded the front of the truck and opened her door for her. I reached out a hand to her, and she grabbed onto it, following me up towards the front porch. I fiddled with my keys at the front door. My hands shook, and I dropped my cluster of keys on the wooden planks below us. She bent down and grabbed them before I had a chance. She flipped through them, looking to me to point out the correct key.

"That one," I said softly. She nodded knowingly and reached in front of me to slide it into the lock. It clicked open when she turned it, and she returned my keys to me. I took a deep breath before turning the knob and opening the door. I was immediately hit in the face with a musty smell, mixed with the sharp scent of the drugs I had smoked inside my trailer for years. It smelled horrible. I turned to look at her. She looked calm, but I was sure that she was hiding her disgust.

I led her inside, and she stood in the doorway, taking in everything in front of her. Roaches skittered across the floor, and newspapers covered the linoleum. Pizza boxes and takeout bags were piled up everywhere, and the entire place was littered with beer bottles. She turned to look at the little kitchen area. On the bit of counter closest to her sat an untouched six pack of beer and... a glass meth pipe. I turned red with embarrassment as she nodded knowingly.

I had quit my drug habit when I moved in with her. She didn't want it in her home, and I didn't blame her. I went through months of hell; going through withdrawals, trying to fight the urges, and trying to control my emotions. Her dedication and her loyalty never wavered. "I want to help you like you've helped me," she would say.

She took a few careful steps inside, trying to avoid the cockroaches that crawled along the floor. She turned to look at me. She looked sad; really sad. "Oh, sweetheart," she whispered.

"I know," I said quietly, and my voice cracked. 

She turned away from me again, stepping carefully over a few piles of trash on her way towards the bedroom and the bathroom. She peered into my room as if she didn't want to move any further into it. I couldn't blame her. She took in the sight and nodded as she moved on to the bathroom. She stepped into it cautiously, and stared at her surroundings. I watched her as she looked into the broken mirror on the right wall. She didn't look disgusted, but I was positive that she was. She just looked sad.

She returned to the main living area, and stood in the middle of the room, looking vaguely uncomfortable. She turned to look at my plastic Impotent Rage statue on the kitchen counter, reaching out to touch it gingerly. She smiled at it, and turned to smile at me. 

"I like this," she said softly, sounding somewhat amused.

"I do, too," I agreed. I smiled sheepishly at her, anxiously picking at a scab on my forearm.

She looked down at the floor around her, where bugs crawled along the dirty linoleum. "You've got some friends here." She pointed at them. I stood quietly in front of her. I had expected for her to dart out of the trailer as soon as she saw the state of it. Instead she was making jokes, clearly trying to make me feel better.

"Well," I sighed, "Now you know who I am." I tried to fight back tears. Surely she was done with me. No woman could see the kind of squalor I lived in and still love me.

"No," she said blankly, staring at me intently.

"No what?"

"No," she repeated, "This isn't who you are."

"It is," I argued. A tear rolled down my cheek, and I wiped it away quickly with the back of my hand. Her eyes softened, and she took a few steps towards me.

"This is just stuff, Trevor." She reached out for my hand, wrapping both of hers around it. "This isn't who you are."

I sniffled, and a few more tears escaped from my eyes. I let them slide down my face. Who cares if she saw me cry? It felt like I had already hit maximum embarrassment, anyways. Besides, for some crazy reason, she didn't seem to be judging me, despite everything I had just shown her.

"Are you hungry? I'm getting kind of hungry," she said matter-of-factly.

"What?" I gawked at her. "You aren't going to say anything else? You aren't disgusted by all of this? By me?" I was stunned. She had barely acknowledged the state of my old place. Anyone in their right mind would have taken off.

"Do you want me to be?" She asked me, her voice verging on sarcastic.

"I understand if you want to tap out... Y'know, move on. I can always come back here." The tears were flowing out of me now like a faucet.

"Is that what you want?" She asked me. I shook my head quickly, and stared down at my feet. "Well, it's not what I want, either," she told me firmly. "The past is the past, Trevor. Sometimes it stays there for a reason. This isn't your life anymore." She stood on her toes and wrapped her arms around me, burying her face in the crook of my neck. Her voice was muffled and soft as she spoke again. "I love you," she said.

The past is the past. I was focused on the future. She was my future.


End file.
